


Red England

by PunmasterExtraordinaire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (it's totally green), (no it's not), Gen, Historical Fabulousness, M/M, Missing scene from Paint It White...sort of, Romantic if ya squint, and if not, because it's all about a certain color, but perhaps you will find them interesting, gonna apologize for that right off the bat, it's much more awesome than that, no points for guessing which one, oh and super long historical footnotes, relationship fic, there's always tl;dr, this is not a commie England fic btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunmasterExtraordinaire/pseuds/PunmasterExtraordinaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America is shocked when England appears in that red jumpsuit--and finds himself unwillingly thinking back on his history with the terrifying man he knows as Red England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Not-So-Distant Future

**Author's Note:**

> If it isn't obvious, this is set during Paint it, White. After all the countries attempt to take on the alien invaders on their own and fail gloriously, the next scene has them all turning up in a run-down house and deciding to work together after all. Whereas the previous scenes all had them in various suits or military uniforms, they suddenly appear quite inexplicably in these bizarrely-colored jumpsuit thingies. I was just thinking about how that might have come about and then I noticed how England was wearing what looked like a red race-car driver outfit...and this twisted little historical fic was born. Huzzah for history writing the plot! And huzzah for blatant color symbolism!

Waiting in the new, temporary U.N. headquarters, America chortled to himself as Italy bounced into the room in his new powder-blue outfit. America had no idea out of what pocket universe Japan had drawn those colored jumpsuits, and to be frank didn't much care. At the mere sight of the rainbow rack of costumes he'd immediately exchanged a long, positively diabolical look with Japan, then leapt into arguments for getting the team to all choose a color and get with the program. Geez, he'd been hoping for a chance like this for _years_. And, really, what better time to indulge in some color-coded team shenanigans than on the eve of an alien invasion?

"C'mon guys, it'll foster cooperation and unity and awesome stuff like that!" he'd said, not even trying anymore to dim his manic grin. "If we're gonna fight those aliens, looking like a team will help make us act like a team!"

They had all agreed eventually under an onslaught of America's chatter and Japan's subtle arguments, with the usual sighs and eye rolls and France's grumbling about the proper style of clothing for alien-fighting. Even boring old England and his big grouchy eyebrows agreed. Come to think of it, England had been oddly...easy to persuade. America hadn't even needed to break out the puppy eyes. Wait…maybe the end of the world had finally made England see how magnificent his plans were! Awesome!

To absolutely no one's surprise, as the hero America had proclaimed his clothing independence and wore his brown bomber jacket, France appeared in delicate pink with a shower of rose petals, and Germany strode in wearing dull militaristic green. And…how had China managed to make the sleeves of his orange jumpsuit longer, anyway? America shook off the thought—he probably had a portable Chinatown to do it for him or something—and exchanged an ecstatic look with Japan. Finally their mutual dream of seeing the former Axis and Allies in Power Ranger-esque ensembles was almost complete! They were just missing…yes, England. America rubbed his hands together, grinning inanely and already thinking of a theme song for the team. This was going to be so _sweet!_

But then England swaggered in, and all the usual petty bickering and marginally non-lethal fighting abruptly came to a stop. Because England was wearing red.

Red.

_Red._

Everyone froze in shock for a long moment, and the tense silence built and built until it shattered as the room burst into noise and movement. As he stared at the apparition now leaning against the doorjamb, America could only distantly observed the other countries' reactions, his own mind frozen in an unhappy mish-mash of emotions.

Italy had begun babbling incoherently and clinging to Germany, whose countenance—though stolid as ever—now looked pale and tight. Wrapped in old memories, China began muttering angrily about opium and stalked away with taut fists. For the first time in recorded memory Japan actually blinked and even Russia's sunny sunflower smile flickered for the briefest moment. And France…France screamed girlishly, leapt behind America, and most shocking of all _did not grope him whatsoever_. Somewhere in the back of America's cloudy mind he decided it was a good thing Spain wasn't here, or there'd be weeping and battleaxes for sure. America didn't know what he himself had looked like at the sight of England in the red jumpsuit, but he did know that his heart rate had jumped and his throat was uncomfortably dry.

England in red was cold pride and a vicious sneer over a razor cutlass. Red was plunder and rapine and crazed laughter over a sinking Armada. Red had conquered a fifth of the world's population and a fourth of the landmass. Red was the long cloak of the British Empire sweeping into the treaty rooms of surrendering enemies and subjugated colonies. Red was the uniform of Britannia, dripping with blood.

Memories began streaming through America's head, swift and tumbling, swirling and falling through his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning. There's going to be a metric bargeload of historical notes, which you are quite welcome to skip at your leisure. I just like to include them for those who are interested in the historical underlay of the scenes I'll be including. Besides, what's Hetalia for but for learning history? Besides the comedy...and the funny accents...and the yaoi...
> 
> ...really, there are no downsides.


	2. Jamestown, Virginia, 1640

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the flashbacks begin...

America laughs as he runs down to the docks, breaking into a half-dozen jumbled songs as his ecstatic mind leaps from thought to thought. For there is a ship pulling into the harbor, and he can just _feel_ England on it! Racing onto the pier, he bounces in uncontainable joy as the ship inches closer.

England always meets America at their house whenever he comes back from Europe. America isn't supposed to come down to the dock since silly England thinks he'll get in trouble for some reason. And normally America tries _really hard_ to be good and do what England says—sometimes for ten whole minutes!—but this morning he woke up with the oddest, most unshakeable feeling that England was nearby, almost on his soil. So he ran down to the harbor and just like that, here was England's ship, the _Faerie Queene_ , approaching the shore!

As the ship nears America barely resists the urge to start yelling for England, as it's "unbecoming of a young gentleman," whatever that means. But he's just so happy. It's been months and months and months since England has visited, far too long for _anyone_ , much less _him._ His big brother is a very busy man, always off doing things that England refuses to explain other than the annoying "You'll understand when you're older." Sometimes England comes back with his arm in a sling or winces when America hugs him enthusiastically. Sometimes he doesn't come back for so long America fears he never will.

America tries to be patient when he's gone, to be a strong young colony with a stiff upper lip as England says, but his big words and ready smile always begin to flicker as night approaches. He never had problems when he lived and slept on his own in the wilderness, but these days the nights are bad without England. On the nights it storms, the wind screams and thunder shakes the house into a terrible moaning that chills America no matter how many blankets he piles on his bed. He is sure _that_ is the sound the dead make, and all through those nights he feels the cold fingers of ghosts plucking at the edges of his quilt as he shivers and cries into the darkness. Only when England is home can he sleep through the storms, safe and warm and cradled gently through the night, the sound of England's soft breathing creating a barrier from the raging elements and clutching ghosts.

But now England is back, for a month at least! America does a little happy dance as the ship creeps slowly closer. He peers at the men running around on deck, squinting a little. Should they be that blurry? At any rate, he can't seem to spot England anywhere.

The red-cloaked captain with the broad crimson hat is striding around with his back to the growing crowd on land, bawling orders at the seamen. One of the men doesn't move fast enough for his satisfaction, it seems, and the captain moves like a snake to cuff him smartly in the back of the head. The man's voice has got the same accent as England, but his tone is harsh and commanding and more than a little scary as he roars at the sailors with words America has never heard before. He's got a gift for languages and is already a nation of many peoples but these biting words are unknown, dangerous-sounding, and intriguing. He files them away to ask England about later.

Still England's nowhere to be seen, and America begins to fear his strange new sense had been wrong—but no, the presence of England feels even closer than before—and a thought freezes him in place: what if England is hurt or sick below deck? His heart twists painfully in his chest at the thought. Fists now clenched into tiny, white knuckled balls, mouth dry, he waits.

Ropes are tossed and secured and a gangplank is laid from the pier to the _Queene_. The captain is tall and broad and brimming with brutal power and America really doesn't want to face him but he'd know better than anyone what has happened to England. What if…what if there'd been a mutiny and this terrifying man had taken over? What if England had been hurt and even now might be- might be- no, America refuses to consider it.

England always protects America, and now it's time to repay him. For once America will help England, be his (what's the word from England's stories? ah yes) be his _hero_ and rescue him from the clutches of this scarlet-shrouded fiend.

He squares his tiny shoulders and walks up behind the man, hands shaking but chin firm. The man's even taller up close, towering and looming and—if America wants to be honest—scarier even than ghosts, and America is certain he can see a darkness writhing around him like the grasping hand of death.

"E-Excuse me, sir." His voice comes out as weak as his brother's. The captain doesn't seem to hear him. America swallows hard. He has to do this, has to face this man to save England! England's hero would stand brave and strong and punch this man in the gut if he had to.

He tugs firmly at the cloak and tries again. "EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT DO YOU HAVE ENG—er, AN ARTHUR KIRKLAND ABOARD?" America winces as the echoes fade away. He always forgets his physical and vocal strength when he's agitated.

Abruptly the captain spins on his heel to face him, and a startled America jumps back, a handful of the thick red cloth tearing off in his frozen grip. He stares at the face more familiar than his own twisted into a perversion of its gentle self, scowling brows over hard jade eyes, a sneering frown carved deep into a tight granite visage. This is England's face…but this terrifying stranger is _not_ his big brother.

America's petrified gaze is trapped on those cruel eyes for what seems like an eternity, terror making his thoughts churn and flail as though swimming through molasses. But suddenly the red cloak is pooled on the ground, the hat falling to join it, and his England stands there with eyes like warm blankets and cool mint with his hands outstretched for a hug.

"America, what have I told you about coming down to the docks, it's dangerous here!" he scolds, but his smile betrays him. "You've certainly grown since I was last here. We're going to need to cut your hair and let out your hems—have you been eating your vegetables and doing your chores? ...Are you quite all right, America?"

America is still reeling with the revelation and finds himself unable to utter a word.

The wasn't-England England ruffles his hair, tugs gently at his ear. "Ah, did I scare you, little one? I'm terribly sorry. When I'm not with you I have to pretend to be very scary and commanding or the men won't obey me. And if that happens then I won't be able to kick the blasted frog's pasty ar—rear end, and we don't want that to happen, do we?"

The little boy nods, tentatively. "It's just pretend? And- and- I wasn't scared. I'm never scared."

"Most certainly on all counts, America. Now do I get my hug or not?"

America beams widely and flings himself into England's arms, tells him all about the things that had happened when he was gone, all the butterflies he had nearly caught and the bunnies he chased, the bear that helped him down from the tree when he got stuck _"What did I tell you about climbing trees when I'm not there, America? You could have been injured!"_ and how _of course_ he did his chores.

"But how did you know my ship was arriving today? Don't tell me you waited at every ship that arrived in the harbor, that's just ador—dangerous."

"Oh yeah, England! This morning I woke up (and made my bed of course) I had the strangest feeling that you were nearby. And I was right!"

America isn't sure, but he thinks England looks a little sad as he speaks. "That means you really are growing up, America. That's your nation-sense developing. Soon enough you will be able to sense all sorts of things about your country and other nations." He gently brushes some of the hair out of America's eyes, his own pensive and distant for a moment. "...My apologies, what were you telling me?"

America opens his mouth to tell him about what he thought of the terrifying England in the red cloak and hat, but for some reason decides not to tell him. The whole episode just feels kind of embarrassing now.

Instead he keeps his plans to be England's hero to himself. Imagine, little America saving England! It seems almost ridiculous now that he's calmed down. If he tells England his brother will just chuckle and ruffle his hair, like he thinks America isn't serious. He'd better wait until he's as big and strong as England to rescue him. Yes.

~o0O0o~

_England did not let America see him in his "work clothes" for a long time after that. And when he did again America began to see them as a comfort, almost, because the red was there to protect him and his people. For reasons he wasn't sure he understood at the time he kept the little bit of red torn from England's uniform, though, hid it when England fussily began looking for it to repair the tear._ Never forget _, it whispered whenever he looked at it._ Never forget that England is not always who you think he is.

 _He still had it today, pressed into a picture frame for safekeeping and kept in his storage room. The dye should have faded centuries ago, yet it remained as vibrant and menacing as it had that day on the docks. And though he had been sure he hadn't forgotten, had_ never _forgotten, the sight of Red England before him yet again floored him nonetheless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much in the way of historical notes for this chapter, as things remained pretty general. But there's coming. Oh they're coming. 
> 
> The name of England's ship comes from a famous poem/story from the reign of Elizabeth I of the same name, via the very excellent fics by Mithrigil and Puella Nerdii. That makes it a bit out of date, but I'm inclined to believe England names all his personal ships the same name. He's a traditionalist if nothing else--and knows what he likes and sticks to it.


	3. The North American Theater of the Seven Year's War: The French and Indian War, 1754

England's green eyes gleam with savage glee as he urges his Redcoats forward against France and the native Nations, roaring for America and his men to "Charge already, you bleeding bastards!" The long scarlet cloak is thrown back over his red-uniformed shoulders as he laughs merrily, blood sliding slickly off his bayonet before it is thrust into yet another poor soldier. England glides gracefully over the broken bodies beneath his feet, darting smoothly to delicately cut throats, disembowel, and dismember enemy after enemy.

It's revolting. It's beautiful. And it's absolutely terrifying.

This is the first fight England's allowed America himself to join, even a little bit. England didn't much like the idea, but America bothered him until he agreed. It's America's first real war, his opportunity to show the world what kind of mighty nation he will become. And yet America, despite his desperate need to prove himself, finds himself instead hanging back to stare, hands cold and sweaty on his own musket. He has never before seen England in action and now cannot look away.

England's breeches had been purest white, once. Just this morning America had brought them back from the laundresses, starched and bleached to the cleanest white in accordance with England's persnickety particularities. But now with every roar of a musket and flash of steel the white is splashed with thick red gore. It would match his coat and cloak nicely, America thinks through a touch of nausea, if they weren't now so soaked with blood themselves that the red had turned black.

England's peal of laughter echoes over the battlefield again—how does he even do that over the sound of war?—and America wonders, in a clinical sort of way, if this is his general I'm-killing-people-and-enjoying-it laugh, or if this is a special one just for killing Frenchmen.

As England wades through another ten men with a few quick movements and a congratulatory bow to himself, America speculates on how much Viking berserker blood England has in him from the raids and settlements from the Nordics centuries back.

England suddenly seems to see something he wants and alters his path of carnage sharply. America squints to see an enormous hat with so many feathers it looks like a goose had to be shaved to get the requisite amount. America adds this point to the owner's flowing golden hair and flair for feeling up confused Englishmen before killing them with a dramatic flair. This…would have to be France, then. Huh. Frankly, he doesn't seem worth all the ranting England spends on him. England's getting closer, almost absentmindedly slaughtering Frenchmen as he walks, his mantle draping soddenly behind him.

America figures if there's going to be some sort of confrontation he, as an official participant, needs to be present, and runs into the fray, dodging stray knives and men locked in combat. Here on the battlefield, the stink of blood and death and voided bowels is overwhelming in the midday sun, and it takes a lot to not shame himself by vomiting.

He had done that earlier when the battle began, and England, who hadn't yet sallied forth, had held him and rocked him back and forth like he used to when he hid in England's bed for fear of ghosts, whispering soothing nonsense and singing old lullabies. America hated himself afterward for the moment of un-nationly weakness. He is a grown man now, dammit, and he can't let England or anyone else think him anything but strong. After America had calmed down, England had smiled fondly at him and ruffled his hair in the way England _knows_ he hates. England had then put on his battle-ready reds, picked up his musket, and swept out of the tent without a backwards glance.

Panting yet simultaneously refusing to breathe the foul air, he reaches England just as the older nation begins the opening volley of insults against his age-old enemy, swishing his weapon in preparation.

"Now, frog, why are you still here getting your oh-so-elegant uniform dirty in the mud? Usually you retreat long before now. Don't you have better things and/or people to do?" He smirks at the implications.

"Because as much as I loathe getting your filthy English blood on my new hat, you have something I wouldn't mind adding to my jeweled crown. Or bed. Ah, there he is now." France's smile is predatory, his eyes appraising. "My, my, how you have grown, little America. So tall and…robust."

Affecting an unconcerned air, England carefully picks what looks like someone's ear off of his shoulder and throws it away with an elegant flick of the wrist. America resists the urge to retch at the actions of both men. His eyes meet another's. When had Canada gotten here? And why is he rolling his eyes?

England's voice comes out a low, growling purr. "Although it truly pains me to deny you anything, my darling France, I'm afraid that America is mine and will continue to be so for a long, long time. My _deepest_ regrets and _humblest_ apologies."

France sighs melodramatically, a hand to his forehead. "Désolé! He may be yours now, but who can say about the future? Let's find out, shall we?"

Growing a bit irritated, America cuts in. "Hey, freaky European guys? I'm kind of right here. Standing in front of you."

England keeps talking as though he can't hear him. "Well, Francey-pants, you can certainly try. But we both know how it's going to turn out. And in case your pathetic, wine-addled little mind has problems figuring that out, let me tell you. It'll end up with you on the ground, my sword in your back, and your colonies—including your beloved Canada here—living under the just rule of the British Empire." He smiles, shining eyes wide and blank and crazed, and it sends ice running down America's back.

What a fool he is, to think England is at his most terrifying when he's killing people.

~o0O0o~

_After the war, America's thoughts turned far too often to what he saw that day and in the fighting-filled years after. Who was the real England? Could that monster on the battlefield be trusted for anything?_

_America began to see what he thought were glimmers of that man in everyday dealings with England, a hard line of the jaw, the flash of an eye. When England stood close in that weird way Europeans had, America had to resist the instinct to back away._

_America could not think of England's words to France about keeping America with him without an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach, which was_ wrong _, America should be_ glad _his big brother wants to stay with him. When he was younger he would have loved to hear that every day. But the way England said the words had been…not right. The way he had said "mine" was as though America was property, not a brother, like he didn't have a say in the matter, like he wasn't even there right in front of him._

_It didn't help that in the last few years he'd begun to feel a sort of burning itch growing in him, a roiling irritation that only seemed to be appeased when he did something England didn't want._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hear a lot (well I do) about the Viking raids on the British Isles, but not so much about how Norsemen would also settle the land. In fact, they had lots of influence on English--and therefore American--culture, especially linguistically. For a very simple example, several of the days of the week are named after Norse gods: Woden's-day (Odin), Thor's-day, and Frey's-day. Add the Viking settlers to the earlier waves of Celts, Angles, Saxons, the Norman Invasion, the Romans, and all sorts of crazy people, and you end up with a big mess on two small islands. No wonder England and his brothers fight all the time! 
> 
> During the French and Indian War (what we Americans call the North American theater of the Seven Years War--I was rather ashamed when I only found out they were part of the same war during research), some American militia were allowed to fight alongside British regiments. Frankly, they sucked. They sucked pretty bad in the Revolutionary War too, but fortunately not *quite* bad enough to lose. Since this was the first really big conflict the colonials were allowed to help in (actually the fact they often weren't added to resentment against the Empire--it was their home and they wanted to help protect it, even if they admittedly did suck), I thought it would do well as the first fighting America sees. England certainly didn't want to let him, let his innocent little boy see the horrors of war and the horrors of Red England in action, but Teen!America was adamant.


	4. America's New York home, 1770

Fuming silently, America listens to the muffled clattering and curses coming from downstairs. England is in the kitchen furiously burning dinner in an attempt to repair relations after their latest fight. America can't even remember how the argument started, but it ended with a glare that nearly sizzled through the air and the two of them stalking away in opposite directions.

Now he paces his room, simmering over a sullen, buried fire. How dare he? What gives England the right to do this kind of crap to America's people? The new taxes are to help England recover after the Seven Years War, and since part of that had been protecting America himself from France and Canada, he supposes England has the right to ask for a bit more. America would _agree_ to the new taxes if he could just have some sort of  _say_ in the matter. His people—he—are citizens of the Empire. Why won't England treat them like it, then? With this sort of treatment America's seeing more and more sense in what Otis was talking about when he said taxation without representation is tyranny.

Why does he continue to act like America's a child to be ordered about? It's not just the taxation—that's merely the centerpiece of an exquisitely arranged bouquet of conflict—but everything from that toddler's playpen called the Proclamation of 1763 to shoving soldiers into his people's homes to just being mean for no reason at all.

America sighs—he can feel his thoughts spiraling down the same path they've been taking all too often recently. He searches for something to get him out of this temper, since he doesn't feel much like arguing yet again with England today. He hates their fights, but these days it seems everything one of them does rubs the other the wrong way.

For the two it never takes much for stubborn pride to be injured and shouting to begin, and at that Canada always just melts away into the shadows in that silent, hunched way he has. The boy, shorter and skinnier than America despite their twin status, had arrived tear-streaked and curled around a bear cub in England's arms after the war. If anything England rants about France is true, it couldn't have been great to live under his care, but America wonders if their household of door slams and mute, snarling emotion is much better.

America goes and slumps at his desk, rubbing his eyes wearily. He finds himself squinting to read in the weak candlelight more and more often lately, and it leaves his eyes aching every night. In this mood it's better to get out the house and run through his land until the itching is eased by exhaustion, until the cool night breeze flushes the growling thoughts out of him and replaces them with the smooth dream of flight.

He pulls open the drawer where he stores his lantern and pauses, struck at the sight of the other occupant of the space. A scrap of old red cloth seems to stare back at him and America is struck by an idea far more appetizing than a night run.

He sneaks into the hallway and listens carefully at the sounds echoing from downstairs. A steady stream of obscenity and a faint burning smell tell him now is the perfect time to act. He pads silently down the hall, automatically dodging the creaky boards, and jiggles England's bedroom's doorknob in the special way that disables the lock. Old houses have their uses, and America's known this house since before it was built. He chuckles lightly at the thought, and slips into the room, closing the door softly behind him. Everything's as neat and shipshape as usual, the only point sticking out a Descartes lying open on the bedside table. But America's not here for that—though he'll certainly think about the implications of England reading that particular author later—and walks into the closet.

There it is. England's red war uniform, the redcoat of redcoats, complete with the medal from the King. The infamous scarlet cloak looms next to it, long folds disappearing endlessly into the shadows. America just looks for a moment, then frowns in determination, squares his shoulders, and strides forward.

The uniform fits surprisingly well, he finds. It's even a little tight in the shoulders. When did England get that short, or rather, when did America get that tall? The uniform smells of gunpowder and blood and power, and maybe he's just imagining it but the roughness of the collar feels like sand and salt on his skin.

He hesitates, one hand on the cloak. The uniform was one thing; he wore one himself in the French and Indian War and the conflicts after. The cape was another matter altogether, something entirely and purely of England's, _only_ England's, dominion. But then America remembers the hurt England had inflicted upon him in their last argument, the scorn and contempt he felt for the younger nation evident in every venomous word, and scowls. In a swift movement he grabs the cloak off the hook.

The mantle of the British Empire falls on his shoulders with a shocking weight and he almost drops to his knees under it. The unending folds spread around him, nearly swamping him before he manages to struggle to his feet. The tremendous, inexplicable weight presses down on his hunched shoulders, a suffocating compression that makes every breath an effort.

It's then he notices something odder. Though the cloak has seen at least as much combat as the uniform, it smells only of England himself. It's the same scent of old books and tea and dewed heather and sea spray that had lain on the shirt he had stolen when he was younger and clutched on the nights England was away, the scent that to him means, indelibly, _home_.

America reminds himself that he's strong, freakishly strong for a colony, and that his eyes are just watering from the dust. He slowly straightens under the load. He tells himself it's not really that heavy at all and tries out a smile. He walks back into England's bedroom to look himself over in the light.

In England's looking glass he cuts quite a dashing, frightening figure, if he does say so himself. His face rather ruins the effect though, he thinks, too young and innocent and full-cheeked with the remnants of baby fat. Time would take care of all three eventually, and in the meantime he decides he likes how he looks cloaked in power, clothed in ruthlessness. He smiles, a mere baring of the teeth, and can't help but break out in nervous giggles at how surprisingly terrifying he looks. If _America_ seems this scary in England's ensemble, no wonder England had frightened him the first time he saw him in it. He gives his younger self extra points for the sheer, heroic courage it had taken to approach Red England on the ship.

He grins in pride, this time a real smile, and notices something else when he looks back at his appearance. The uniform and the cloak both are frayed around the hems. Is England really that far in debt? America has heard the Seven Years War had been pretty icky all around without much to show for it, but the frayed cuffs before him somehow wrings something painfully in his chest where the gossip hasn't.

He's still staring at the loose threads with a frown when he hears exactly what he does not want to hear.

"America? America, dinner's ready, where are you?"

He has stayed far too long. America's heart jumps with a sickening twist, and he begins to desperately look for an exit, eyes darting wildly like those of a small cornered animal. But there is only the one door out, and England is in the hallway. He decides to hide in the closet and takes a step—

—and the door opens.

"Amer—" England freezes at the scarlet sight before him. Immobile himself, America watches England as a tumult of emotions crosses the older nation's face, so swift he cannot pick any out but the underlying expression of absolute horror.

But then, knuckles white around the doorknob, England's countenance becomes as still and expressionless as a dead man's. It's his not-showing-the-world-his-thoughts face, the one he uses to talk to countries he doesn't like but has to be polite to, and America loathes it. It used to be that England was always open with him, always unreserved and honest with his little brother, but in recent decades that face has been pointed at America more and more often.

The appearance of that expression sends a blaze of boiling anger through his chest, and he lashes out. "You look kind of pale, old man. Not scared, are you?" He'd say anything if it makes that face go away.

England doesn't respond to the insult, doesn't even seem to hear it.

"Take that off, America. Put it back in the closet where it belongs."

"What if I don't—"

" _Please_ , America."

Why isn't England shouting? England _always_ shouts when America does something wrong. America's never heard that tone in England's too-quiet voice, never seen that empty look in his eyes before, and it's beyond unsettling. He retreats to the closet and changes, hanging England's reds back up as they were. He walks back out, and from England's expression America already knows this incident will never be discussed.

They share a long moment of quiet between them. England lets out a long breath, closing his eyes for a moment, and the tension slowly leaks out of the room.

"I've made blood sausage for dinner for a special treat. It's ready whenever you like." He attempts a careful smile.

America sighs, stifles an eye roll. "England, I haven't liked blood sausage since I was, like, a _hundred_."

England stiffens and something that looks a lot like wistfulness flashes across his face, to be rapidly covered up by outrage. "Now why in God's good name are you speaking like that madman Poland? I certainly never taught you to speak like some sort of delinquent."

"There is nothing wrong with how I talk! My people just took English and made it better!" The tension has returned, writhing up through the floor and heating the air around them.

"No, it's a perversion of the proper way of doing things! Just like you and your people corrupt everything my people send you!"

America's feeling something akin to whiplash. After that bizarre little scene, they're arguing again. He hates it when they fight, but this time it's almost…comforting. It is a bit of normalcy in a situation that has been irrevocably changed. Clearly England feels the same way, for he's slipping easily into his role as the fusty old man who just doesn't understand what America's trying to say.

Though he's distracted for now, America knows he will be thinking about the events of today for a long time, thinking about him and England and the sight of his own blue eyes above the red.

~o0O0o~

_The world had certainly changed since that day._

_After a world conference in Stockholm one time in 1998, America energetically bothered England into coming with him on a quick McDonalds run. England hadn't been clothed properly for a walk in the Swedish chill and characteristically denied he was cold through chattering teeth for the first several minutes. After a few choice comments America good-naturedly draped his bomber jacket over his companion's shoulders, carefully not thinking of the implications of such an action. At the time it had puzzled him when England in response stumbled and let out all his breath with an audible oof. After a minute, though, he began grumbling around flushed cheeks about the smell of burgers on the jacket, so America had supposed whatever happened hadn't been too serious._

_Thinking back at all those memories now, America wondered how heavy his bomber jacket was these days. Some days it certainly felt as if the weight of the whole world was on his shoulders. It wasn't as though he just tossed the thing around willy-nilly to whoever wanted it, so he really didn't have much of an idea. Come to think of it…he'd never lent it to anyone. He made a mental note to drop it on Canadia's head the next time he managed to see him._

 

_America could feel the ominous approach of the next memory like a thundercloud on the horizon. He could see those uniforms even now, feel that rain on his face…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical stuff!
> 
> England reading Descartes: England reading philosophy about self-governance? And it's French? Sounds like someone wants to know what America's thinking...
> 
> Taxes: Indeed, for all we 'Mericans go on about how terribly we were treated then, the new taxes weren't really that bad--actually British citizens in the Isles had much more. It was more the fact that the colonials had no say in the matter that was important: the line was "No taxation without representation," not "No taxation whatsoever." The line about taxation and tyranny I quote in America's thoughts, by the way, is most associated with Boston politician James Otis, though it was around in Ireland for at least two decades before this.
> 
> Another of America's grievances includes the quartering of British soldiers in colonial houses. How would you like it if some random, battle-worn, probably vice-filled and foul-smelling man was randomly shoved at you and you were told he was going to live in your house for a while? Not much, I'm sure, though this issue also has to do with the representation complaint. This bugged the founders so much the 3rd Amendment to the Constitution explicitly states that quartering of troops in the houses of citizens is forbidden, (not that we have to worry much about that these days). 
> 
> The Proclamation of 1763 is the one where the British government limited the spread of colonials to the Appalachians, which displeased all the people looking to spread west. I figured America would look at it as yet another way England's treating him as a child that needs to be kept safe and suffocated, unwilling to let him spread his wings and grow. A large part of it actually had to do with the Empire not wanting to get in more costly fighting against Native American forces. It's pretty sad when you have the British Empire being the nice one when it comes to native relations...well, comparatively nice. 
> 
> A note on America's language: You'll notice I don't bother trying to make any of my characters speak the language of the time, since it would be beyond difficult and be most likely incorrect. Also, it wouldn't have the same impact; just assume America's speaking in the 1770s equivalent of "what them thar young'uns are a'speakin' these days." His is the language of the young and rebellious, and England doesn't like it one bit.


	5. The American Revolutionary War: Yorktown, 1781

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No points for guessing what *this* one's about, folks. *Angst Alarm goes off in the background*

America has seen England across the battlefield before—how could he not, over four years of warfare—but this is the first time they've faced each other since America, stony-faced, handed England his Declaration of Independence. He has been wondering, all these years, whether England was deliberately avoiding him. Admittedly he hadn't been all too eager to face off against the man himself, with angry words covering an aching emptiness, and correspondingly stayed on his own side during their battles. He still heard England's crazed battle-laugh a few times, though it sounded harsher, more grating than usual.

Now they face each other, too far away for America's heart, yet far too close for America's hurt. This is hard enough for him without so many of his people still loyal to the Crown or undecided, hard enough when he can barely stand for weariness and pain.

Under the pouring rain it is difficult to see more than the general features of the nation before him. The red and white of England's uniform stands out less than he would have thought on the trampled, muddy field.

America finds himself unconsciously trying to look over England, checking him for injury as he did whenever England came home from his wars; an old habit that has no place in his life these days, especially since England has no home here any longer and never will again if America has anything to say about it.

With that steadying thought, he raises his musket and points it at England with a straight and unwavering grip. It is time to bring out the little speech he composed all those years ago, simple and direct without the lies and twisty language the Europeans love to hide behind. He is a plain and honest person, and he does not intend to stop being so now that he is his own country. Or will be, as soon as England just admits it already.

"England. All I'm asking for is my freedom. I'm no longer a child," he swallows, "nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!"

"NO!" The word tears out of England and he leaps for America, gun stabbing forward with a desperate thrust. "I won't allow it!"

The blade of his bayonet crashes against the stock of America's own weapon, knocking it out of war-weakened hands and to the sodden ground.

"You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?" The blade of the bayonet comes to rest against America's throat before he can stumble away.

Distantly America hears one of his officers tell the men to ready their weapons, but knows even if every bullet found their target they could not put either of them in more pain. France and Prussia are back there somewhere too, probably snickering to themselves, but he can't bring himself to care. He cannot manage to tell the men not to bother firing, either, because he can only focus on the bayonet trembling at his throat and the face before him.

England is pale, with dark circles under over-bright eyes, his usually flyaway hair plastered flat against his head by the rain. Those eyes, usually warm forest green or acidic, annoyed lime, are now just empty, brittle and bitter. Water rolls down his face and heedlessly into his panting mouth, and—are those tears blending seamlessly into the rain? No, it can't be. For while England might occasionally cry, usually into his beer, Red England never weeps.

The cold edge at his neck twitches, and America prepares for his death.

But then the blade droops, the musket thrown viciously away.

"There's no way I can shoot you. I can't." England slumps to the mud like his body has given up on ever standing again. "Why? Dammit, why? It's not fair—" And America can't pretend anymore, because England is sobbing openly into his palm, shaking as the rain pounds icy needles into the dirt.

The red cloak is pooled around his hunched figure, crumpled and leaden with water and filth. His uniform is splattered with dank brown muck and his own blood. The formerly bright scarlet of the cloth is dimmed somehow, the red washed out and dulled by grime and water and maybe something else.

America knows his own uniform doesn't look so pristine, either. Over the years it's become torn and worn, and America would clumsily mend it himself, blinking blurry eyes in the weak candlelight as he couldn't help but remember the sight of England's long, thin fingers swiftly darning the holes in young America's clothes, roughly used in play and adventure.

His uniform has been stained by innumerable injuries as the British won battles and seized land; results of the organ failures and deep, weeping wounds that are only now starting to close and heal with the regaining of his territory and the retreat of the British.

"You know why," America whispers. Of course he knows why. They both know all too well why, and it's far too late to go back to what they were.

He is so glad it is over, so tired and excited, terrified and happy.

He tilts his face to the sky and lets the rain drip down his newly-liberated face, washing away the tears that were never there.

What had happened, for them to come to this?

"You used to be…so big."

~o0O0o~

_Despite what England seemed to think, America didn't get some sort of vindictive enjoyment out of that day, of rubbing his liberty in England's face. He loved the day of his independence, the day he first stood up as his own man, forging ahead into a future of his own making. That's what he celebrated every July 4th, a day of new beginnings and hope, and that's why he always sent England an invitation. What better day to repair relations, after all? What America_ didn't _do on that day is celebrate the death of the relationship most important to him, the day he made his big brother cry._

_But England never seemed to get that, did he?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to shape this piece of canon into something more mine. It's tricky, since this is probably the most fic'd piece of history ever, but I hope I've given you something that doesn't sound too much exactly like everything else out there, mostly through my theme of clothing embodying their wearers, not just covering their bodies (hehe, I can never resist even the lamest play on words). It's just impossible to talk about the relationship between our two sad boys without the Revolution coming up. Meh.
> 
>  
> 
> Headcanon time!
> 
> The line about America preparing for his death: no, he's not just being melodramatic. In my canon, a nation-person on the edge between utter failure and becoming his own country (or a similar situation) like America is during this (especially since he's still reeling and bleeding from having at least two of his thirteen colonies completely occupied at one point) can actually be killed, at least semi-permanently. So yeah. England not killing him is serious business.
> 
> America claims he's own country now, thank you very much. England says he's still part of the British Empire, part of England. So what happens when England's people have to fight against America's? As far as England is concerned, those are English subjects fighting against English subjects. He's killing his own people, and it feels like it's like a mini civil war. Add that to intentionally fighting against, hurting his little brother... Oh England... D:
> 
> Now, can y'all guess what flashback will come next? What year?


	6. En Route from the U.S. to Spain, 1811

America is woken from a fitful sleep by the sounds of panicked shouting up on deck. Mind still foggy, limbs uncoordinated, his attempts to get out of the hammock end with him in a sprawled, tangled mess on the floor. Rather glad one of the actual sailors hadn't seen him in such a state, he manages to stagger to his feet. His stomach doesn't much like the quick movement, but his stomach never likes _anything_ to do with the sea so he tells it to shut up and stop being cowardly. He's pretty certain heroes don't get seasick, after all.

Hopefully whatever this commotion is isn't too serious. He's got boring diplomatic stuff to take care of with Spain, and he just wants this whole trip over and done with so he can focus on what's really important in his own lands. At least Spain knows how to throw a good party, unlike some nations he could name.

He fumbles open the door onto deck and steps out, only to be met with a very bright shade of red, a very sharp sword held before his eyes, and a very familiar voice silkily drawling in his ear.

Perhaps it would have been better to just stay in the brig and puke his guts out in peace.

"And who's this?" England says with mock surprise. "What's your name, young man?"

"You know very well what it is, Kirkland," America says. "What do you want?"

"That's Captain Kirkland to you, boy. And we've had word there might be some pathetic deserters from His Majesty's Navy aboard this vessel, isn't that right, men?"

There's a mumbled chorus of "Yes Cap'n" from the British sailors, who stand guard over the disarmed and wild-eyed American crew.

"Well, these are all my countrymen, _Captain_. There is no one here for you to steal."

"I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Jones. Some of these men definitely look like deserters to me."

America lowers his voice so he won't be overheard. "I've heard of the crap you've been trying to pull over the last few years, England, but this takes the cake. You really are an ass."

"And you never fulfilled your promises to the Loyalists."

"The Articles of Confederation didn't give the central government the power to enforce that sort of thing, you know that. And not only have you been stirring up the Indians, but you didn't relinquish the western forts in the Ohio Country!"

"Still an idiot, I see. I _haven't_ been stirring up your natives and I have no idea how that idea managed to get lodged in your thick skull. It's certainly not my concern your government is weak and pathetic. You barely have an army and even less of a navy; frankly, it'll just make it that much easier to eventually conquer you again. Once I run out of worthier targets, of course."

England smiles, a bright, hard curve that more in common with his gleaming blade than with actual mirth, and America remembers the stories he had heard of England's privateering days in the 1500s. He had been awed when he was young, though disappointed that England would always refuse to tell him stories of that time. Later on he dismissed them as more exaggeration than truth. Upright, duty-bound, pinky-out England running around with ruffians and criminals, avoiding his own government? He had laughed at the thought. But seeing England now, with that cutlass in his hand and that look in his eyes, it is far too easy to see the wildness and ruthlessness in him, to understand why Spain twitches towards his battleax whenever piracy is mentioned.

But America cannot let this bully of a country cower him. He's his own nation these days, the beginning of a powerful one, and he doesn't take this sort of treatment from anyone, especially not tyrants. Especially not someone who just blatantly lied to his face about the Indians. He had been there at Tippecanoe, and knew a British gun when he had one pointed at him. England really must think him stupid not to see something as obvious as that. So, veins roaring with fury, he strikes back, insult for insult, with what he knows will hurt England the most.

"If you're still pissed off about the Revolution, I don't blame you. Having thirteen little colonies beat your imperial ass must have been quite a blow to your pride. And since aside from your pride you really don't have anything or anyone, it's no surprise you're still obsessing about it. But it was your own fault I did it, you know. Frankly, the way you were acting made it that much easier to break away." He hisses it, low spiteful words that snap like whips.

He hears a sharp intake of breath from his red companion, and then England swiftly turns until he faces America directly, the cloak brushing America's arm, and suddenly the icy line of the sword is pressed far too close on his throat. Every flutter of America's heightened heartbeat pulses against the edge. He has a horrible sense of déjà vu as he stares into England's eyes, hard and green as emeralds. Not so long ago he had been in this same position, but this time all uncertainty, all care and emotion is excised from England's face as though with a doctor's scalpel. Any particle of the England he had known was gone, replaced by a face of stone and a wall of impenetrable red. America dearly wants to swallow, but he's afraid he might cut his own throat by doing so. Just because as a nation he probably won't die from the action is no reason to do so needlessly.

England's voice is such a low snarl it barely sounds human. "If you don't stop your lip I'll just have to cut them both off, so shut your yammering maw and listen carefully. What you don't seem to realize, you insolent _wanker_ , is that the only reason you are not currently beaten within an inch of your life, trussed and tossed into the deepest bilge water of the _Queene_ right now is that I do not particularly want to have to fight an upstart ex-colony when I have better enemies to destroy and more valuable lands to conquer."

"Might does _not_ make right, and you have no right to press naturalized American citizens!"

England's sword is as rigid and unmoving at America's throat as if it is his arm that is the steel, not the weapon. The only movement between the two is the faint billowing of the long red cloak in the sea breeze, the same wind drying the cold sweat on America's forehead. They don't bother with blinking; America's too busy scowling at his former brother and England's too busy glaring back.

"I am perfectly within my rights as a British captain to both impress British-born men into service and bring deserters of the Empire back into the fold. Since I can see someone who fulfills _both_ of those criteria in front of me, I suggest you stop talking. Now."

And with that, the blade is flicked away from America's throat and England walks back to the crews, turning his back on America with an arrogance that makes the younger man's blood boil. England gestures to five of the heavier-browed American sailors. "If I'm not mistaken, these men here are deserters. Bring them aboard."

"No way, you asshole!" America bursts out. "You're just picking them because their eyebrows are nearly as monstrously huge as your own!"

England sends him a disapproving look. "Tsk. I certainly didn't raise such a mouth. They're obviously British, and I'm also picking them because they look capable, compliant, and quiet. If only I could have done the same when I was picking colonies."

"Ha, you're certainly one to talk about cursing! You've got the mouth of a sailor and the morals of a pirate."

"Yes. Yes I do. But your childish self and your feeble country can't exactly do anything about that, can you? So, Mr. Jones, have a pleasant trip, be sure to say hello to Mr. Carriedo from me when you see him…oh, and drink plenty of water for that seasickness of yours. Come on, men. The day's young yet." He spins smartly on his heel and swaggers back to his ship, leaving an infuriated and confused America behind.

As the _Faerie Queene_ —honestly, couldn't he think of a better name after centuries of seafaring?—sails on its merry way, America is left with clenched fists, a tight jaw, and a depleted crew. This…this was too much. England was going _down_ , giant army or no, ships-of-the-line or no. If he had to go through Canada to get to him and personally punch his too-clever mouth, he didn't care.

"Men! Turn this boat around. The Spanish can wait. We've got something more important to do at home."

~o0O0o~

_As far as America was concerned, England practically_ asked _for the War of 1812. But that's the way he always acted, wasn't it? He'd found at a young age that letting people in his heart would inevitably end in pain; with siblings like his, how could he not? And when he had tentatively opened those doors again to a little nation with eyes as blue as his spacious skies and hair like amber waves of grain, he was pushed away with a loaded gun._

_So nothing was safe, nobody was beyond suspicion, and there was only one way to act. Get hurt, hurt them back tenfold. Get too close, push them back. Hide behind harsh words and harsher red so they can't see they succeeded in causing pain. No man is an island, Donne famously said. Yet England was one in every sense of the world, lonely and rainy and forever alone in splendid isolation._

_Now England stood before him again, all hard lines and sharp angles. And that expression—oh the last time America had seen that particular smirk weaseling its way onto England's face, it had been mirrored by Canada as the two played Pin-The-Flaming-Torch-On-The-White-House._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Loyalists, the Articles, and the Forts: The A. of C. was the the very weak prequel to the Constitution. The government created by (lasted 1781-87) it really didn't have much control over the headstrong and authority-leery colonies - heck, it wasn't allowed to tax or raise an army, just ask for them. Part of the Treaty of Paris that ended the Rev. War stipulated that the Loyalists whose stuff had been seized during the war would be compensated and they would be allowed to return to the States to resolve business without being attacked in the streets or arrested. But most of the states just coughed awkwardly and ignored the stipulations. In return the British stuck out their tongues and refused to give back the western forts in the Ohio Country, which was another of the stipulations. I get the feeling if the two were just shouting "You do it!" "No, you!" "Mooooom, he started it!" "Nuh-uh!" for about thirty years or so.
> 
> The Native Americans: Skirmishes with the natives happened regularly as Americans began the the great western spread, the first inklings of Manifest Destiny. With tensions already as they were, the sight of the natives appearing with British-made weapons naturally made Americans rather suspicious, but the British insisted they had nothing to do with it, and for the most part this was true. American freaking out over this reached a height in 1811 at the Battle of Tippecanoe.
> 
> Impressment: Just about nobody wanted to be in the Royal Navy other than England himself, and for very good reason. It sucked. It sucked in a way that made your now very short life miserable beyond belief. So the Navy had something called the Press to fill in the gaps in the crew, so to speak. If you were male and sorta knew what a ship was, you'd sit down in a pub with some very nice gentlemen who kept paying for your drinks and wake up in the middle of the Atlantic with a new occupation. Unsurprisingly, desertion was common, and so the British would hunt down men they thought were deserters, often boarding American ships and searching them for them. This ashamed and infuriated the Americans because they weren't able to protect their ships and men from search and seizure.
> 
> On the American side, they were doing very sneaky things with avoiding paying duties and crossing their fingers behind their back while insisting that, "No, of course we're not trading with the West Indies! Whatever gave you that idea?"
> 
> It's like America is a canker sore that England can't help but poke, and America can't help put poke back.
> 
> America's particularly mad here because England has been being a jerk when it comes to impressment and American citizens. Y'see, most people in America were naturalized, that is, they weren't born on American soil, but gained their citizenship after immigrating or after independence was gained. But the British were all like "What'chu talkin' 'bout? They were born British and we can press them if we want. Shut up and go back to playing with your toy boats." This was partly because the idea of naturalization was so strange at the time.
> 
> Ships-of-the-line: These were battleships, also called man-o-wars, with multiple masts and decks. When war broke out, the United States had a whopping none. The U.S. Navy was eighteen years old at the time, and had barely a dozen ships, with its most powerful being three frigates (three masts and two decks). Whereas the British had eighty-five ships in American waters, including eleven ships-of-the-line and thirty-four frigates. Fortunately for the American side, though, the British ships were undermanned even with impressment and foreign & criminal recruits; conditions in the Royal Navy were horrific and not a good way to live past thirty-five. Still. Just about the only reasons the U.S. was not crushed rapidly were that their naval people had some experience with combat already and that Great Britain had a little French rascal named Napoleon to deal with. And when Britain managed to go all Lord Nelson on him and focus on the Americas...well, you'll see in the next chapter.
> 
> "Go through Canada to get at him": Canada's still property of the British Empire, and his closeness and resources is making him look pretty tasty. And all the War Hawks in Congress don't help at all...
> 
> "No man is an island": Written famously by English poet John Donne in "Meditation XVII". I can't help but think Donne must have written this specifically for England.
> 
> Splendid Isolation: A phrase used to refer to British foreign policy in the late 19th century, but I think it can be applied to England for so much more. I can just hear him insisting that he's fine, dammit, and his isolation is splendid and completely intentional, and he doesn't need any-bloody-body, especially not that tosser America, and pass him another brandy already, can't you see he's thirsty?


	7. Washington D.C., August 24, 1814

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" America screams. It feels like he has raw, fiery heartburn, which he finds darkly, distantly amusing since that is quite literally what is happening. Washington D.C. is aflame, and the two culprits stand in front of him. They stand in matching British uniform, hateful ember-red reflections of each other in the burnt umber of the setting sun.

"Ah, there you are, America," England says pleasantly, as if the three of them are having tea in his rose garden rather than standing in front of the Presidential Mansion with an intent to commit arson. Canada just glares, fingers clenched around a torch. A low, continuous growl emanates from his soot-dusted bear.

"Why are you _doing_ this?" Every beat of his heart hurts.

Canada is shockingly loud. "What, don't you remember what you did to York? You burned the parliament of Upper Canada, and now we're returning the favor."

America is beginning to feel lightheaded. "What are you talking about? Why would I burn New York's parliament? He's a nice guy."

"You-!" Canada steps forward, his usually gentle face scored by rage, and punches America in the stomach. Great, now he's even more nauseous. "What kind of nation attacks his own brother?"

England laughs bitterly. "A very European kind of nation, of course. I thought you hated the kind of backstabbing we did on the Continent, America. I suppose you inherited more from me than I thought. What's next, are you going to start your own empire?"

America's frown deepens. "I'm not—you know what? Screw it. Look, you've already got the Capitol building and everything else. Ju-Just don't burn the Presidential Mansion too." Pain is creeping down his left arm, and they're going to burn it despite his words, but there's no way he's going to say 'please' to these bastards.

"I can burn whatever I want, and you're certainly in no position to stop me," Canada snaps, and with that he throws the torch through a window with a crash of expensive glass. It doesn't take long for flames to start licking up the walls. America just watches in dull horror, his chest feeling like it's wrapped in acid flame. He stands stiff and straight, though. He's not going to let them see his weakness if he can possibly help it.

They watch the fire grow for a few minutes, silent but for the crackling of the burning house. America tries to blink the sweat from his eyes but only manages to add spots to his vision.

England daintily brushes soot off his uniform. "Well, it's been fun, Canada, America," god, that smirk, "but I've got to finish mopping up after an upstart Frenchman." He gives them a little bow and saunters off, the red of his clothing standing stark and dark before the light of the flames.

Canada smirks back and turns to America after a moment, and they stare at each other, identical enemies, identical twins. It's only then he notices how worn out Canada looks, as exhausted as he feels.

"Well, America," he says, "if you're as tired as you look and I feel, then why don't we just call this a tie and go home? You burned my government buildings, I burned yours, call it even?"

America smiles slightly, ruefully. What a time for their weird twin mind-reading thing to kick in. Why couldn't it have happened when he needed to know Canada's battle plans? He can't manage to stop panting for long enough to reply, so he just nods woodenly.

"I'm sure England will agree to peace; he never really wanted to bother with this war in the first place, not when he's busy fighting Papa—er, France. I'll see you around, eh?"

He walks away too after a polite little bow, and it is only then that America allows himself to unlock his knees and fall to the ground, the pain washing through his chest with every throb of his scorched heart. So this is what a heart attack feels like…He blinks, but only sees darkness when he opens his eyes.

It is only after he regains consciousness in safety with the Madisons that he learns D.C. has not been razed to the ground, learns that someone high in British command has ordered only public buildings be burned. Private homes and businesses would have been left untouched but for that tornado that came out of nowhere.

America rubs the new charred scar on his chest and frowns thoughtfully. He wonders how many times a city as old as London has burned.

~o0O0o~

_America found himself wrapped in the same thoughts he always had at the sight of Red England. Did the red embolden him to show his inner self, strip away the pretense, the cultured, gentlemanly, caring veneer to reveal the true England of bared tooth and crimson steel? Was the England of his youth just a persona, a costume like Britannia Angel? America always refused to admit that he feared this, insisted to himself he did not feel enough for the old man to care either way._

_Or is it just an act, thrown on and off with the red itself? When America was young England had always maintained this was the case. America dearly wishes this is the truth, yet despite all the theater in his blood England's never been much of an actor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you, but I love pissedoff!Canada.
> 
> York: A little city later called Toronto. Funny story: you know that silly "Don't Mess with Texas" slogan? Well, if you piss off Canada, he can and will mess with Texas. However he Damn. Well. Pleases.
> 
> Heartburn and Heart Attacks: It's canon that a nation's capital city is his heart. So when the capital city is torched, what does the nation feel? Heartburn, of course! *slaps self for pun* Throughout this scene, America's progressively feeling some of the warning symptoms of a heart attack. I feel it's an appropriate equivalent for having your federal government burned to the ground, especially with the chaos and the loss of control.
> 
> "...start your own empire." : A bit of foreshadowing here. Ever heard of the way America met and absorbed the Philippines, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, Alaska and Cuba? Not to mention stuff like the Louisiana Purchase and the Mexican-American War.
> 
> Presidential Mansion: The White House, of course! But it was only nicknamed that after it was rebuilt after the war.
> 
> "...an upstart Frenchman." : A certain Corsican named Napoleon. England's been too busy trying to put him into a full Nelson (heheh *slap*) to be able to spare much attention for the American War, which is partly why we lasted as long as we did. As soon as Napoleon was shipped off to his own personal island adventure in 1814, Great Britain was able to send a ton more troops into the Americas. This resulted in their victory at the Battle of Bladensburg and the subsequent D.C. bonfire night.
> 
> Random tornado: For realz guys, there was a heavy thunderstorm that swept into D.C., doused the fires, and leveled up into a cannon-juggling tornado. The burning of D.C. was surprisingly civil and bloodless, due particularly to British soldier discipline. The tornado forced the British to retreat to their ships as well, and so the occupation of D.C. only lasted 26 hours.
> 
> British orders to burn only public buildings: When I read about this, I audibly squealed because that's just the sort of thing England would do, the stinkin' tsundere that he is. Have I mentioned I love it when history backs up my thoughts on characters?
> 
> Wanna hear an awesome story? Look up what Rear Admiral Cockburn's creative solution to media slander was. I'd put it here but it's too long and too awesome for one footnote


End file.
